


Another Go

by Daryl_Alenko



Series: The Many Lives of Bilbo and Thorin [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, I'm Bad At Tagging, Jealous Sherlock, Love is hard, M/M, Reincarnated Bilbo is BAMF, Reincarnated Thorin is Gentle, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-10
Updated: 2018-09-20
Packaged: 2019-07-10 11:58:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15948896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daryl_Alenko/pseuds/Daryl_Alenko
Summary: Sequel to My Hobbit.Bilbo and Thorin are reincarnated but unaware. This is the story of their struggle to return to one another.





	1. John Watson

**Author's Note:**

> I plan to expand this universe to cover different ways in which Thorin and Bilbo are reincarnated and given different ways/chances to find each other.
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> Oh, and the rating is for possible language.

Fate is a bitch. Once something is set in stone, there is little hope of coaxing something more agreeable from it.

This is a lesson a poor little Hobbit learned far too well. No amount of passionate fights, loving kisses, or ardent promises could change the Fate of Thorin Oakenshield or their two dear, sweet Nephews. 

Bilbo had only the 'luck' of being with Thorin when he uttered his last words. Later, when presented with the bodies of his Nephews, he wept until he was hoarse and chilled to the bone. There were no words to make it right, no quest to make it better. In the end, he ran back to the Shire as fast as he could in hopes of out running the ghosts of what might have been.

Though that first night, laying all on his own, without the warmth of his family surrounding him, he had whispered every promise of the future Thorin had given him, until he fairly blacked out from exhaustion. 

And years later, when Frodo, ever a curious fauntling, asked why he had never married ... he quietly asked the lad to go outside and play ... then promptly locked himself in his room and wept as he once again repeated the list of promises that were never to be. 

And then, the elves offered him a spot in Valinor and he embarked on his final journey in Middle-Earth.

But Fate has a way of holding on to it's favorite things .. and as Fate would have, the life of Bilbo Baggins would not truly end in Middle-Earth because as a famous author once said ... there are other world's than these.

* * *

John Watson is not a man of great size or stature, but neither is he someone so easily over looked. Not usually, anyway. But today, with the London skies looking a particularly peaky shade of grey and everyone hurrying about in hopes of getting indoors before it rains, he is easily trampled under foot. In two blocks, his feet have been trod six times, his ribs elbowed thrice, and his face smacked by an errant newspaper. 

At this point, he is one altercation away from throttling someone. Slowly. With great pleasure. Not a side of himself he is overly proud of, of course, but some days really do just inspire a certain amount of blood lust.

He huffs a chilled breath, absently wishing he still had his cane. It would be ever so -fun- to trod some toes in innocent, wide-eyed revenge right about now.

He is practically cackling with amusement as he bounds up the stairs of 221b Baker Street. The moment he enters the sitting room shared with his flatmate, however, any and all sense of amusement dries up instantly. Because Mycroft, the permanent bitch-faced Holmes sibling, is sitting in his chair. That is NEVER a good thing.

"Ah, John. Took a bit longer than usual to get coffee, did it? Hope the masses weren't trampling you too terribly. " The 'refined' sneer in the words are not lost on him. Which is why he cracks his toothiest soldier smile.

"I will poor hot coffee on your balding head if you don't kindly remove yourself from my chair, Mycroft." 

"Hmm. Tetchy." The sneer had become a snobbish little sniffle and John wants nothing more than to shove the sound right back down the confounding buggers throat but he would not so easily visit that level of violence on the arrogant prick.

At least not today.

"3 ......... 2 ........ 1 .." Before John can step forward on the one count, Mycroft levers himself to his feet and dramatically falls into Sherlock's chair instead. It's Johns turn to sniff arrogantly before he settles himself comfortably. 

"JOHN!" Sherlock comes stumbling out of the open kitchen, wearing an expression stuck somewhere between offended and manic. "Have you seen my card? Can't find the blasted thing anywhere." The words end on a world weary pout, because only Sherlock is such a child that something this simple could be life altering until he forgets the reason he wanted it in five minutes.

"I have it, berk. Coffee was on you this time." He reaches into the breast pocket of his jacket, brandishing the card.

"Ah. Lovely. Thanks." Sherlock yanks his cup of coffee out of John's hand then yells when the card is unceremoniously pulled from reach and shoved -back- into John's pocket. "John! Give me that!" He flicks his free hand dangerously close to Johns face.

"No. That is not going to happen. Find something else to use for your madcap experiment, Sherlock. I am -not- ordering you another replacement card! I already get funny looks at your bank and if I hear one more bloody wife joke from that lot, I may commit murder. And as my flatmate and best friend, you would have to help cover it up." He leans heavily back in his chair, sipping his coffee happily.

"Hmm, of course I would help, John. Too right, too. After all, if any one would be the wife, it'd be me." The consulting detective drops that particular bomb with aplomb before waltzing back into the kitchen, already muttering about his experiments.

"As if Sherlock would have to help, John. I already have several contingencies in place for when that very thing happens." Mycroft sniffs once more and John finds himself wondering what alternate reality he has managed to sit down in.

" ....... I noticed, dear Mycroft, that you stated -when- and not -if-."

"Caught that did you, soldier boy? I am not my naive brother, Dr. Watson. First and foremost, you were a soldier, even if a medic. And I have no doubt that one of these days, you will be the reason someone is dead. Likely someone that came after Sherlock." The self-assured bureaucrat leans forward, his usual fake smirk becoming somewhat darker and more knowing. "You have already done so once before, after all." 

Watson swallows down the tang of bile at the back of his throat. He has faught in war, seen far too much blood and suffering and never wishes to be reminded of it again, if he can help it. 

"Mycroft. Please do stop bothering my doctor and tell me what you are doing here. I'm much too busy for your nonsense." Sherlock breezes into the room, on his way toward the couch before he manages to glance over and see that John had reclaimed his chair. He immediately makes a b-line for his own, shooing his brother away that he may claim the spot closest to his associate. He would not allow himself to call John his friend more often than strictly necessary. It helps to keep things clear, the establishing of boundaries. 

"Well, it's a good thing that I'm not here for you then, isn't it, Sherlock. No. It seems this time, it is your dear doctor I have need to speak with." The words are  innocuous on their own. Harmless. And yet, when spoken by the eldest Holmes, they make his skin crawl. They are foreboding.

"What could -you- possibly have to say to my doctor that wouldn't involve me?" There is no real arrogance to the words, oddly, just a truthful sense of confused curiosity.

"Quite a lot, I'm sure. It seems, Dr. Watson, that someone has been going to a great deal to track you down as of late. I have had your name flagged for observation, curious to see if your association with my brother will cause any problems." At This point, he gifts his younger brother with a less than impressed smirk that makes John want to give him a good left hook. He's not sure -why- he feels so violent as of late.

"Why on Earth would anyone want to look me up?" He snorts before taking a long pull of his coffee, pondering the oddity of it all.

"From what I can gather, he served with you at some point." John chokes at those words. Swallows his mouthful of too hot coffee down the wrong way. He struggles to blink back the sudden well of pained tears.

"John?" The fact that Sherlock cannot manage to mask the genuine concern in his voice is almost as alarming as the news he just received.

"Its fine, Sherlock. Whoever it is, I doubt I want anything to do with them." This is not a lie. Not really. He can think of but one soldier he would give almost anything to speak to again. However, to his knowledge, there is no speaking to the dead.

The coffee had long since cleared from his throat so he is more than a little surprised to find that his vision is still blurry. Oh. Right. Those are tears. He furiously blinks them back before once more gaining his feet. Though he's a little unsteady on them. 

"Right then. Sherlock, I'm using your card again." He barely mutters the words as he swiftly takes the stairs. The fact that he is willingly using Sherlock's card without protest or promise to pay him back puts the consulting detective immediately on edge.

"Nice going, Mycroft. Now kindly bugger off. An upset John is not a good thing. I'll let him have at you if you're not gone by the time he gets back ." John smiles grimly, warmed by Sherlock's words. He will never be able to make people understand what he sees in Sherlock, but moments like this are so very precious.

* * *

Several hours later and the poor veteran is somewhat calmed now that he is full of far too much tea and sweet pastry. He doesn't usually indulge, but Mycroft's news had been enough to draw him into some much needed indulgence. 

He silently opens the door to 221b Baker Street, hoping that Mycroft had taken Sherlock at his word and left. Though a small part of him -really- wants the chance to go after the eldest Holmes.

"Excuse me ... you're Sherlock Holmes, right? The, uhm consulting detective?" The voice that drifts down the stairs is deep, perfectly accented. It makes John think of multifaceted gemstones and polished gold gleaming against velvet. He shudders momentarily as he continues climbing the stairs.

"Yes, yes, quite right. Give me a moment and I'll, erm, try to help --" Sherlock abruptly stops talking and draws in this soft sort of breath that John recognizes immediately. Its not a sound his friend often makes but it means that he had taken an instant disliking to someone. "Actually, never mind. I take it back. I don't think I can help you in the least. Please leave." The last two words are an acerbic hiss and the poor doctor really isn't looking forward to having to lecture Sherlock yet again. 

The sound of deep, merry laughter nearly takes Johns legs right out from underneath him because he would know that laugh -anywhere- and its simply not possible. 

"Well, I guess it's just my luck I'm not here to see you then, isn't it? I, uhm... I'm actually looking for your flatmate ...  Dr. John Watson?" There is a note of sheer hope in the man's voice and John isn't sure if he wants to laugh or cry. He quickly crests the stairs, breath held in anticipation.

God. He's everything John remembers him to be. Dressed in perfectly tight jeans with matching tight shirt and knee length coat ... he's not sure his poor heart can take it.

He stumbles forward a few steps, feet feeling four times as large as they really are. The sound draws those gloriously blue eyes toward him and is that his heart stopping??

"Th-Thorny ...." The name feels clunky and wrong on his tongue. But God, that bright, luminous smile of the man before him is enough to render him breathless. Especially when his eyes crinkle at the corners and his lips part to speak in that velvety voice again.

"Hello, Johnny." Holy hell!! Why is he suddenly so -dizzy-!?! Oh. Right. He's not actually -breathing- . He manages a single, pained whimper before he crumpels to the floor, out cold.

* * *

To get an idea of what Thorin/Thorny looks like because this picture is beautiful and deserves all of the drool:

https://www.syfy.com/sites/syfy/files/styles/1200x1200/public/wire/legacy/richardarmitage.jpg?itok=m8Kolij8×tamp=1497663261


	2. The Ghost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am taking suggestions for the third installment of the series. Should their next set if lives be reincarnated into original characters, or should it be an AU version of their book/movie characters?

Awaking to a world that had so fully tilted on its axis was not a pleasant experience. Neither were the screamed words of rage when John realized that Sherlock had sent their guest running from their flat with threats of having Lestrade arrest him for any number of ridiculous reasons.

The only thing that had calmed his anger toward his friend had been the overwhelming amount of concern and sincerity when he examined his reason for making the man leave ...

"You -collapsed- John and there was nothing I could do to wake you and it was -his- fault! I was not going to let someone who -hurt- you stay!!"

So he of course had no choice but to forgive his fool after such words. But that's Sherlock for you, isn't it? Just when you're ready to scream and write him off, he shows that scared, lonely little boy underneath and you come running. How can you not??

But that does not solve his problem. The Case of the Ghostly Soldier. At least, that's what he would call it on his blog if this were one of Sherlock's mysteries rather than a personal conundrum.  

Despite the fact that he managed to forgive his friend for tossing the ghost out, he has spent the last several days a brooding, lurking, moody mess. He snaps at Sherlock , verbally pushing the man away in a bid to find peace in his wallowing. Not unlike the actions of a certain Dwarf King he does not yet remember. 

To his credit, Sherlock has endured John's actions far better than he would have from anyone else. He had made an effort to be quiet, not to draw attention to himself like the primadonna he can be. He has even been nicer to Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade when he comes round. All because John Watson is his dearest friend.

A truth that John has begun to think he does not deserve.

"John." Sherlock's voice is surprisingly gentle, calm. "I'm hungry. Lets go eat." Of course, the surly doctor knows this for the lie that it is. Sherlock is never hungry. This is for John's benefit and his alone.

Moments like this ... when a man who is naturally self centered can so thoroughly care about him ... it is moments like this that he knows he could almost fall in love with Sherlock Holmes. Almost, but not quite. He has come so very close! Knows he does truly love this overgrown child of a man but he cannot give him his heart. Sherlock would never be capable of cherishing such a thing. Not in the way John wants and deserves. 

So John Watson will always -love- Sherlock, but there is someone out there he -knows- he will be in love with, with all of his heart. His One. 

"Yeah, alright, then." He flashes a tired smile at his friend before they ramble down the stairs and out of their flat.

* * *

They have forgone their usual table at Angelos in favor of a new cafe John has been wanting to try. So they find themselves settled at a table outside. The weather is surprisingly comfortable and John is happy to find that he's feeling a little more relaxed as well .

"Thank you, Sherlock." He shifts uncomfortably in his seat but also manages a smile for his friend.

"Think nothing if it John. It was either go for a meal or offer you some of that sedative laced tea. However, when you woke up there would've been nagging for me to eat. Two birds, one stone." Perfectly logical bullshit. The kind of thing  Sherlock spouts to keep his 'functioning sociopath' self diagnosis intact. John indulges him most of the time.

"Sound logical reasoning, my friend."

"Yes, I thought so too. " Sherlock sniffs, much as Mycroft often did, but with that subtle little smirk of his in place. "Hmm. What to get? The pesto looks good."

"He's allergic to pine nuts." The deep, velvety voice takes both men by surprise. Sherlock tenses and John quickly angles his body to the left to see the tall, blue eyed man standing beside their table ... wearing that breath taking, eye crinkling smile. 

"What?" Sherlock questions, but John really isn't paying attention. He's staring at the man, mouth drawn into a tight, emotional frown. His hands are clasped desperately in his lap, shaking with the ephemeral pain of memory.

"Can't believe you remembr that, mate." John's usually strong voice is a shakey squeak and were he not hovering on the edge of hyperventilating, he'd be offended on  his own behalf. As it is, however, he's just damn proud of himself for not passing out again.

"Of course I do, Johnnie." Another one of those amazing smiles, and John wants to break down crying. Wants to shove the heels of his hands into his eyes and furiously rub away this mirage. Because it can't be true. He's gut punched, heart somehow still beating despite the fact that it is a shredded, hemorrhaging mass aching beneath his breast. 

"No one calls me Johnnie. Not any more."

"Well, I, uh ... wasn't sure if I was still allowed to call you Hamish." 

"O-oh God." John gasps the broken words from a mouth fallen slack as he finally reaches up and rubs painfully at his tear stained eyes with the heels of his hands. The grind is painful, explosions of color dappling his closed lids as he seeks to erase something that he truly does -not- want to go away.

"John!?!" How has he managed to forget Sherlock sitting there, looking deadly on his behalf even as he struggles to appear as neutral as possible?

"It's alright, Sherlock, I'm fine. But I need you to leave, okay?" The request is strangled, hands falling back to his lap now that they are suddenly to burdensome to hold aloft. Sherlock stiffness where he sits, all pretense of hardened emotion falling away in a cascade of pained confusion. He is so used to being the undisputed center of John's attention that the thought of banishment is too much to take. And normally, John would be ecstatic to see the shattering of this affectation but not when he's struggling to hold the last shreds of his sanity in hands bloodied by ghastly memory. "-Please- Sherlock. " One last, half mad plea of desperation and his best friend is shoving his chair back with rude frustration.

"Very well. I wasn't hungry any how." Sherlock takes a jerky step away from the table before rounding on the interloper with a fierce, openly threatening sneer. "You, burglar. If my doctor is returned to me in any way broken or of a damaged condition, I will kill you. This is not an idle threat, colorful silliness or anything of that nature. This is a factual statement. If you doubt my ability, keep in mind that it is my life's work to prove to the authorities just how stupid they are when it comes to solving murders. Oh. And my brother is basically the British Government and despite all outward appearances, is rather fond of my doctor as well. They would never find your body." Sherlock flashes a sudden, falsely sunny smile as he buttons his coat. "Good day, then." John winces as he goes, despite the feeling of warmth in his gut. He believes every word his friend has just uttered and he knows that he should be -appalled- at the threat that has just taken place. Instead, he feels fully fond as he turns to look at the wide-eyed, innocent shock on his friends face. 

"Wow. Uh ... so, that just happened. Bit protective, your boy is." John watches with some faint sense of amusement as the other man reaches back to awkwardly rub a hand at the nape of his neck. The poor doctor resists the urge to chase the path of the hand with his teeth and tongue.

"He's not my boy, Thorny. He's my best friend." He exhaled on a heavy sigh, shaking hand fumbling for his glass of tea.

"I thought that was my job description?" Poor John barely managed to set the glass back down without dropping it. 

"No. Just no. All these years ... for fucks sake, Thorny I thought...."  A wave of hysteria crashes through him. Struggles to bubble up in his throat and claw it's way out of his mouth but by some miracle he swallows it down.

"Damn it, Hamish, it's not like you came looking for me, either !" There is a stubborn passion to the words and John wants nothing more than to stomp away in an brooding strop but he can't. He's pretty sure his legs wouldn't support him at the moment. The last thing he wants is to appear weak in front of this man. God, all he had -ever- wanted was his approval. 

"Because I thought you were dead!" The words are an impassioned scream of anguish and he flinches when so many glances dart in their direction. "I -did- look for you and I was told you were -dead-, Thorny. I... I nearly went AWOL. I.. I'm sorry. I.. I have to .." John pushes clumsily from the table, trembling as he leaves his stunned friend behind.


	3. Dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is going to have flashbacks occurring during dreams, that will depict the violence of war.
> 
> This chapter also contains a few F-bombs.

**__**

**_The air is cloying with the overly rich scents of dry dust, oil-sweet gunpowder, and rusted copper salt of blood. It is that last one that is overpowering Watson's senses. Making his movements lethargic and clumsy. He is a medic trained to be a soldier and at this moment, both skills are failing him epically._ **

**_The high pitched whiz of a bullet sailing far too close to his sweat drowned ear causes him to jump in surprise. He momentarily and hysterically wonders if his ears will be filled with sweaty mud by the time this hellish nightmare is over._ **

**_He grunts with far too much effort as he forces himself to move. Forces himself to lunge for cover behind a twisted piece if metal. It is only after this allows him to regain some semblance of a normal breathing pattern that he remembers -why- he had been exposed like that. Oh God. THORNY!!!_ **

**_Gotta find him. Gotta find him. Gottafindhim!! His mind is stuck on a perpetual loop of desperate need. His friend is out here somewhere, way out of his depth. Thorny had the heart of a lion but he was never meant to be a soldier. He should be running a bookstore and coffee shop somewhere, not battling this horde of twisted, fanatical monsters._ **

**_"Hamish!" Thorny's voice is a sandpaper rough rasp and John has never heard anything so fucking beautiful in all his life. Not even the first time Harry had promised him she would stop drinking and he had been foolishly naive enough to believe her._ **

**_"Damn it, Oak, you scared me half to death!" He reaches out with a shaking hand to roughly punch his friend in the meat of his arm so that he doesn't make the mistake of pulling him into a bone crushing hug that would not only be inappropriate to the situation but would also reveal far too much. The battlefield is no place for those kinds of emotions._ **

**_"Seriously, Hamish? There are zealots with -guns- ready to sacrifice us to their blood thirsty Prophet and God, and -I- am what scared you?" Every word is peacocking bluster to hide the fear that is tearing his friend up. He'd give anything for Thorny not to be here. Even if it meant they had never met. He'd give up those expressive, pretty blue eyes and bright sunshine smiles for this man to be safe and sound, living a gentle and happy life._ **

**_"At this moment? Yes!! You daft twit!" John reaches up to push the heavy, dusty helmet against the slick wet slide of his sweated brow and struggles to swallow against the emotions forming a lump in his thirsty throat._ **

**_He's pretty sure he has never been so terrified in all his life._ **

**_"What a strange creature you are, my friend." There is no mistaking the surprising amount of affection in those words and John is still hard pressed not to say or do something foolish. Before he can think too long on the subject the sound of a scream, hollow thudding and the shrill roar for a medic has cut through the moment. He is almost hyper aware of the hand digging painfully into his arm._ **

**_"Hamish --"_ **

**_"It's my job, Thorny. Keep yourself in cover or so help me!" The words are an uncharacteristic snarl._ **

**_"Just ... Mahal, please be safe, Hamish." Before he can ask what a Mahal is, Thorny drags him close, roughly pressing their mouths together in a desperate declaration that neither can truly speak at the moment. John merely squeaks once they are parted, before forcing himself back into the headspace of a medic at war. He casts his friend one last glance before lunging from cover._   
**

* * *

John yelps, as if burned, sitting up awkwardly on his bed as he fights through the remnants of his dream. His sheets are a sticky, sweaty mess clinging to his skin in clammy tufts that are annoying. He angrily kicks them off the end of his bed, hands shaking as he presses a calloused finger tip to his chapped lips. Even after all  of these years, he can still remember that desperate, yet somehow perfect press of dusty lips against his own. 

It was by no means his first kiss, not even his first kiss of the same gender, but it is the one that has lingered, unfading, haunting him even to this day. He rears back, his fist slamming wrathfully against his pillow. Once. Twice. Three .. four... five. Until finally he falls back upon the bed, swallowing down a strange warble in his throat that tastes suspiciously like a sob. As he rolls over onto his side, he misses the concerned shadow hovering in his open doorway.

* * *

_**Everything is death .. or at least, smells like it. He had been called over to work on two wounded soldiers but there is nothing he can do. They were dead before the word Medic was ever shouted. He gives them something to make their passing easier, but can offer nothing else.** _

_**"Dear God!!" The sudden gasp of such words pulls his attention. He grabs up his weapon, hand surprisingly steady as he follows the direction the words had been groaned from. More of those twisted, desperate souls are charging over the hill and his stomach feels as if it will tie into knots as a sense of doom settles over him.** _

_**"Oak!" He's screaming the name before he can stop himself. Watches his friend fall from cover and stumble over to him. He frees a hand from his weapon to grab the front of his friends BDUs, twisting his dirty fingers in the material. "Get yourself back toward the rendezvous."** _

_**"Hamish!"** _

_**"Do -not- argue with me you stubborn giant! I will not .. I.. just go, Thorny." He reluctantly pushes the taller man away, watching the progression of emotions across his handsome, pained features.** _

_**This time, he is not as surprised by the action. The feel of a large, shaking hand grabbing at his shoulder. Of lips pressed desperately to his.** _

_**"If you die, Hamish, I will never forgive you." The words are growled against his mouth but he doesn't get a chance to respond because his friend is already jogging off.** _

_**"Oak ..."** _

* * *

John jerks awake with a groan, his back and shoulder protesting the movement. He is getting far too old to fall asleep at the kitchen table while working on his laptop. He runs his hands down his face, scrubbing at his cheeks as he tries to shake off the bone deep wearines inside of him.

"Here." Sherlock's terse voice causes him to jump in surprise when his friend appears at his side, setting a coffee mug within reach. 

John reaches for it on pure instinct before remembering who has actually handed it to him. He instantly distrusts it. 

"Really, John, do you think I would do something to it? Don't answer that." Sherlock wrinkles his nose in distaste at his own words. "I assure you it's fine. You just .. you're very tired lately." They both try very hard to ignore the discomfort of Sherlock showing actual worry. 

"Thank you, Sherlock." Against his instinct and better judgement, he finds himself taking a drink. Savoring the bitternes as he leans back in his chair. Staring at his laptop screen without actually seeing it.

".... why were you dreaming about trees, John?" The question takes him by surprie as he draws the mug into his hands, suddenly craving the warmth of it.

"What?"

"While you were asleep .. you kept talking about oak trees. Why were you dreaming about trees, John?" It takes far too long for him to understand what his friend means. He sets his coffee down with a grimace.

"I uh.. I wasn't dreaming about trees, Sherlock. I was dreaming about the war, about my friend. Oak was his last name. Apparently, his parents were the tree hugging hippie type." He actually giggles at the memory of Thorny telling him that. "Thorny Oak. I used to always tell him that it could've been worse. He could've been named something like .... Bilbo or Oakenshield." He starts to laugh but the sound becomes one of pain instead. It feels as if John's head is trying to explode, implode, and melt all at the same time. 

"John? Blast. I may have used too much." In no way can such words uttered by Sherlock EVER be good.

"Y-you said it was fine, Sherlock "

"Yes, well. I'm sorry. I lied, John. You haven't been sleeping well. This will help. Oak. That's the man from the other day? The one that gets to call you Hamish and Johnnie." If John's head were not swimming so oddly, he'd say Sherlock sounds jealous but that simply isn't possible. And even if it were, he knows better. He can never give his heart to Sherlock Holmes. His poor friend wouldn't know what to do with it.

"I... yea. Yeah. Thorny Oak. I.. you lied to me again, Sherlock. D-Damn... you." He whimpers the final two words as he tips listlessly over the side of the chair. Despite everything, he's not at all surprised to feel Sherlock catch him before he hits the ground.

"Hate me if you must, John, but this is for your own good... my friend." Such words he had not expected. Not because he doubts that Sherlock thinks of him as a friend, but because he doubted to ever hear the oaf say it. 

He passes out before he can tell Sherlock that he doesn't hate him ... he just doesn't much like him right now.

* * *

_**The advancing horde is nothing short of terrifying. He has just enough time to wonder how many cells have joined up against them before bullets start flying.** _

_**He is not a man that enjoys war. In fact, he hates it. The idea of taking a life will forever be an uneasy one. And yet, as a soldier, a modern day warrior, he does not shy away from doing what must be done. He just doesn't like it.** _

_**He grunts with exertion as he struggles to pull a man out of the line of fire. He makes quick work of staunching the flow of blood and bandaging him up before he turns back into the fray.** _

_**Time passes sluggish and odd. Some moments feel like a slow burn lifetime while others feel like an ephemeral blink of an eye.** _

_**"MEDIC!!" That scream does not come from the front lines but instead, from somewhere behind. In the direction he had sent Thorny in hopes of protecting him.** _

_**He turns on a dime, that need to PROTECT that always burns slow beneath the surface roaring like a forest fire. He is expecting the worst when he gets there and hates himself monumentally for being -glad- that it is not his beautiful Oak in need of healing.** _

_**"Hamish!" Oak drops to his knees beside him and John is surprised to find the edge of tears blurring his vision. "How can I help?"** _

_**"Hold pressure here ." He walks his friend through each needed step to save their brothers-in-arms as war wages all around them.** _

_**Once again, time passes in a weird paradox that he is unable to quantify. He simply moves from soldier to soldier with Thorny playing nurse for him. Any other situation and there would be jokes and maybe a few new added fantasies, but he is elbow deep in guts and vitae. He can also -feel- the fear pouring off his friend in waves and he wishes he could comfort him. But he can't. Because no matter how he feels about his friend, there are far more things at stake. A painful thought but a truth none the less.** _

_**"You're doing good, Thorny."** _

_**"S-so much blood." The man's deep voice has gone soft and strange. Strained against the screams he is sure his friend wishes to release. He really wants to do the same.** _

_**"I know lad, I know. But you really are doing so good." He never wanted his proud Oak to have to see this. Not any of this. The quick smiles and silly jokes he had come to treasure may be no more because of this battlefield. If he ever meets Thorny's family, he's pretty sure he will visit violence upon them.** _

_**"Hamish, I --" The words are cut off by screams and ululating as a small splinter group of the horde over run them.** _

_**Three lives the doctor is forced to take in rapid succession, the training of a modern day warrior overriding the training of a healer. And yet .... and yet, it's not enough. As he is training his weapon on the next, he hears a voice he treasures above all else screaming in pain. Hears the dull thud of bullets impacting. Can smell even more blood in the air.** _

_**He snaps. Of course he does. He shoots the bastard before him before shooting the next point blank in the face. He drops painfully to his knees, shaking hands pressing tightly to the wound in Oaks's gut. He can see three different shots across his body** _

_**"H-H-Hamish.." His middle name is thick and viscous from the mouth of his friend and he wants to cry. Wants to break down weeping as he struggles to make sure his friend will live.** _

_**"Ahhh. Quiet now, my stubborn giant. Don't go wasting your energy on talking. Its going to be alright." He is not sure if he truly believes that, or if he's just trying to make Oak feel better.** _

_**"I... I have to ... H-Hamish ..." John feels like his heart is trying to beat a 100 miles an hour while simultaneously trying to shatter into 1000 pieces.** _

_**"Fuck! It's gonna ... don't -talk- Thorny." He blinks back a curtain of stinging tears even as he struggles to stop the bleeding.** _

_**".. I... I love you .... John Watson." Words he had never really expected anyone to say ... words he had longed to hear. Words he had wished Oak to say ... just not as the last words he expected his beautiful friend to ever speak.** _

_**"God, Thorny, I --" Pain suddenly blossoms along his shoulder and the world goes dark.** _


	4. Heart to Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a short chapter, I know, but it is full of feels.

Dreams of war are hard enough to endure. Dreams of war in which love was declared and then thought lost are a thousand times worse. To the point that the poor veteran had been dreading sleep and avoiding it all he can. He truly thinks that if he could never dream again, he would be fine with it. 

Maybe he can get Sherlock to teach him how to function without emotion. That would be a blessed thing.

"John?" The hesitancy in Sherlock's voice is almost eerie. He supposes that is because it is so very foreign. There are not many things that could drive his friend to such a vulnerable state. 

"Yes, Sherlock?" He carefully folds his newspaper and sets it aside as he watches his best friend fiddle with his violin.

"Why aren't you like Molly?" The question is si bizare that he's not even sure it is in English. 

"What? Sherlock, what does that even mean?" He's trying not to feel utterly flabbergasted but he is so confused. He listens to Shelock tune the violin and wonders why his stomach has suddenly become a leaden weight. He can feel pain creeping over the horizon and it scares him.

"Molly. Despite everything, she is in love with me. It defies all logic. But still, she tries to give me her heart." Oh by Aule, he knows where this is going. It is a conversation he had convinced himself would never happen. "Why aren't you like Molly, John? Why can't I have your heart?"

There are so many reasons he wished never to have this conversation and the pain it will cause his best friend is one of the chief ones. 

"Sherlock ... does knowing Molly loves you in any way change the way you view her?" He knows the answer to his question,of course he does. But he also knows it needs to be asked. Sherlock will need all the truths and facts at his disposal to understand

"What? Don't be silly. Of course not. She is a useful tool, nothing more " He wishes he knew the right combination of words to make Sheock understand what he is saying is -wrong-. That Molly is a person, a -friend-, not just some tool. Most days, he still wonders if that is all he is to the consulting detective . A useful tool to stroke his poor little ego. 

"And if I loved you, Sherlock, as she does ... would that change the way you view me?"

"Don't be stupid, John. Of course it wouldn't. You would still be my assistant. Still be there for me to bounce ideas off and make sure I remember to eat and stop for tea. You would still be the one to talk to people so I don't have to." 

And there it is, in a nutshell. The reason he has never considered telling Sherlock how he felt. He sucks in a silent, heartstopping breath and tries to smile. Though he knows it is more of a grimace.

"Exactly, Sherlock. Nothing would change. As you just stated, it would all be about -you- ...... and don't you think I deserv better than that, my friend?" He allows his eyes to close, his breathing a softly labored thing as he struggles not to break down in tears.

He can almos feel Sherlock breaking down from across the room. Can feel his friend retreating behind the wall of feigned emotionlessness that he has hid behind for so long. It is never fair when the truth hurts so Damn much.

"Right, then " Sherlock plucks the bow across his instrument before shakily placing them both down when there's a loud knock from below. "Right on time. Good night, John." Sherlock takes the stairs two at a time, yanking the door open and disappearing out of it before John can even begin to stand. He's far too weak from his lack of sleep. 

"Hamish." Thorny's voice is just as tired and worn down as John feels.


	5. Go Now

Thorny. His proud Oak. The only one who had ever called him Hamish. The only one who had ever made him feel like he was more than the responsibility of being John Watson.

Even now, he fears he's in the presence of a ghost.

"Mr. Oak." The name rings hollow from his tongue but still he finds himself using it. A form of distance to protect the aching shards of his frayed heart.

"Dr. Watson. Are we finally going to speak, then?" He deserves it, of course. Thorny is simply replying to his formality in kind. That does not soften the hurt. He has no right to these feelings, but they are poisoning him none the less. 

"Seeing as Sherlock went to all this trouble, it would appear we are. " John sighs and nods to Sherlock's chair. It is odd watching his friend fold himself into the structure . Though he is only a couple of inches taller than the consulting detective, he carries himself in such a way, with such presence, that he seems so much taller than that. Bigger. Almost majestic in some ways. In truth, John had always been a bit jealous and intimidated when it came to Thorny Oak.

"Surely your meddling flatmate isn't the only reason you are going to talk to me?" He honestly can't answer that question. He's still having trouble wrapping his head around the fact that Thorny is -alive-! "I see ... I guess I assumed that your silence all this time had nothing to do with .... with the last words I said to you. I am sorry, if they caused you pain. I did not realize you did not feel the same. More the fool am I."

It is only once Oak has stood from the chair that John realizes what he said. He jumps to his feet, nearly falling into his friend. He is not that surprised to feel strong arms wrapping around his waist. He is, however, surprised to feel his hands pressing tightly against Oak's chest. The drumming beat of his heart is beautiful and ALIVE and John is struggling so hard not to break down sobbing. Weeping like the poor, lost creature he feels to be.

"Don't. Just... don't you -even- Thorny! My ... my -silence- is because I thought you were -DEAD-! Nothing short of that would've kept me away. I..." he carefully, reluctantly pulls from his arms and settles in his chair again. Once Oak is settled across from him, he reaches out and takes both of those larger hands in his. He is surprised to find that they are both shaking.

"I woke up in the infirmary with my shoulder almost obliterated. It hurt so much. They kept me out of it for awhile. When I finally had enough of my wits about me, I asked for information on you. It was the longest hour of my life, Thorny. The nurse came in, said she was sorry, you didn't make it, and left before I could even ask anything.." Thorny's hands are trembling like mini seizures now. John wants to hold so tight that they will stop but he could never hurt his Oak that way. "I yanked everything out and managed to make it to the front doors of the place before they caught me. Said I was too out of it to hold it against me. And then, there ....... there was a suicide watch --" His words are cut off by a wretched, watery sob pulled from the depths of Oak even as his hands are tugged. He sprawls indelicately across his friends lap, fingers twisting in the material of his shirt as they had on his BDUs years ago.

"Stop. Just, by Mahal, STOP! I cannot imagine you in such pain, Hamish. It will be my undoing." Warm, silken lips press desperate kisses to his temples, jaws, cheeks. Even one to the side of his nose as they cling to one another. He is pulled more fully into Oak's lap, his forehead pressing deep against his shoulder. "Please, just ... just tell me true, Hamish .... do ... do you return my love?" 

Had such a silly question been uttered before? He was on -suicide watch- for Aule's sake! He sucks in an almost acidic breath before shoving his face into the crook of Thorny's strong neck.

"My silly giant." He tattoos the words across Thorny's skin. "I lost myself without you. Yes, Thorny Oak, I love you. With all that I am, you berk." He sighs into his neck, nuzzling there languidly as he settles as close as he dares.

"H-Hamish" His name is a blunted groan that spirals through him. Cascades heat down his spine, trickling across his thighs as he struggles to keep his breathing steady.

"It's alright, love, we have time." John feels as if he's going to explode or float away, grabbing tighter to his friend to ensure that this is really happening.

* * *

John awakens feeling sore, warm, and happier than he has been in years. The wall of warmth at his back is the reason for this, of course. Thorny is breathing soft, wet breaths across the nape of his neck. His strong arms are wrapped loosely about his waist.

John has never experienced such a distinct feeling of home before. He turns his head enough that his temple brushes Oak's shoulder before he reluctantly makes his way out of bed. He misses the warmth of his love instantly but goes about silently dressing. Simple jeans and a tee shirt, socks and trainers. He finger combs his hair and heads downstairs.

Once into the kitchen, he spends the next twenty minutes searching for something edible that isn't somehow mixed up in one of Sherlock's madcap experiments. Once it becomes obvious that they have nothing, he sighs and slips silently back into his room.

He finds himself leaning heavily against the door frame, smiling like a love struck goof as he watches his Oak sleep. His features are sweet and boyish, unburdened. He has taken hold of John's pillow, cradling  it against his chest, face buried in it. 

The sight sends John's heart galloping in his chest. He cannot believe it is possible to love someone this much. 

Reluctantly, he shoves off the door frame and creeps further into the room. He scrawls a quick note and leaves it on the bedside table before slipping out of the room and ultimately out of the flat.

* * *

Thorny wakes slowly. It is not a sensation he is used to. Nightmares of hateful words and a fantastical, bloody battlefield often have him jarring awake. He has never woken up in slow, lazy increments before.

The first thing he is aware of is the sense of warmth cocooning him. Followed by something gentle beneath his cheek that smells so deliciously of John. He nuzzles closer into it, taking comfort from John's scent but wishing his love was still in his arms.

He is not a man given to large displays of emotion very often but he feels as if he could easily shout his happiness from the rooftops. He is giddy beyond means that the One he loves returns his feelings.

With an almost purred sigh, his eyes flutter open and take in the room around him. This is his first time in this room but it somehow feels familiar and inviting. He chalks that up to the fact that it is John's living space and he knows that his muzzily smile has probably reached besotted proportions. 

This is in no way surprising to him. 

He has loved John for so long now. He truly thinks he fell for the brilliant man upon the first day they met. John had been a bit gruff, rough around the edges, but no one could hold against Thorny's charms for long. By the end of that first day, they were fast, inseparable friends ... and Thorny can admit to himself that he spent most of that first night daydreaming of domestic bliss with John. Picturing things like cooking homey meals side by side. Curling up on the couch all warm sweaters and tangled limbs. 

He stretches slow and deep, feeling the delicious pop of joints and the pull of well used muscles. He runs his fingers through his hair, grunting vaguely at the few tangles that snag before he manages to push himself to a sitting position on the side of the bed.

As he is blurrily wiggling his way into his boxer briefs, he spies the note on the table. As soon as his pants are slung low on his hips and socks pulled on, he grabs the note and heads to the sitting room.

_My proud Oak .._

_It seems only right I should feed you so I am popping down to the store. Sherlock seems to have left nothing edible in the entire flat. I should only be a few._

_I love you._

Thorny reads those last three words a dozen times while somehow managing not to do something creepy and intense ... like sniff the paper to see if the scent of his friend lingers. He has always had such powerful instincts when it comes to John.

He reaches down to scratch at his belly, tucking the note into his pocket. As he stands there debating the merits of curling back up in John's bed to await his return, he begins to get a weird feeling. If he had to describe it, he would say it feels like a slow trickle of doom. Like something too hot and rancid sloshing against his heart. 

His breathing speeds up and he doesn't even make a conscious decision. He's suddenly running full tilt from the flat, that sense of doom now coupled with complete terror.

He bursts out of the door, visibly shaking as he looks around desperately. He spots John half a street away but feels no relief at the sight. If anything, he's even more scared than he had been moments ago. His heart is racing and he feels as If he will sick up any second.

He takes off running, lips ready to form John's name in a desperate plea when it happens. A pale car loses control. It jumps the curb and collides violently with his One. Even as he feels his heart may simply stop, he puts on a burst of speed to reach his fallen love's side.

The first thing he registers is the copper rust tang of blood mixing with the sweet acidic smell of squashed oranges. It makes his stomach roil and his heart seize again.

He dodges hysterical onlookers and fairly collapses beside John's prone form. There is blood all over his shirt and more leaking from the corners of his gaping mouth. Oak remembers enough of death to know what it looks like when it is laid before him. This is not fair. This isn't fair and when will Mahal stop punishing him like this?!? Is it not bad enough they had such little time before, that they had but a few hours this time??

"T-Thorin.... " That name, spoken in that voice ... he suddenly feels as if Dwalin has hit him about the head with Grasper as he used to a world away when they trained as young Dwarrow.

"Bilbo ... my dear Hobbit." His voice is ill and sickly, breaking on the words as he forces them past the lump of emotion in his throat. "Mahal is madness to let this happen again. Is this ... is this how it felt, to watch me go, love?" Hands trembling and unsure press reverently, desperately to the fading beat of Bilbo's heart and feels the unsteady rythym echo through him.

"Yes, my King. This is how it felt. Th-Thorin. It hurts ... so bad." Thorin bows his head in an effort to hide his sudden weeping but he knows his Hobbit can hear the ugly, heartbroken sound.

"I know, Kurdel. (Heart of all hearts) I know. But soon, the pain ... will ..... will pass." Of course, it will mean that his sanâzyung (one pure love) will have left this world but he cannot bring himself to speak those words aloud. "I am so sorry, my Halfling. I.. I can do nothing to save you." A gutpunched sob is ripped from his trembling lips as he nearly bends himself in half that he may hunch protectively over his beautiful, broken love.

"I am half of -nothing-, Ghivashel. (Treasure of all treasure)" He jolts in pleasant surprise to hear his love speaking Khuzdul to him. Just as it had delighted him to hear it when they were a Hobbit and a Dwarf. He sniffles heavily.

"No, you are half of my heart, Bilbo Baggins, and you always will be." He leans close enough to press a kiss to his bloody lips, swallowing down his next sob as he clings to his fallen love.

"As you are half of mine, Thorin Oakenshield. Menu tessu, amrâlimê.(You mean everything to me, my love.) I d-do not ... care h-how long ... it takes .. I will find .. you .. again ... my King." Before Thorin can say anything, he is forced to watch the light leave Bilbo's eyes. He begins to scream. Sobbing and keening wails at the top of his lungs as he clings to his dead love.

On repeat in his mind? Damn Mahal!!

* * *

Go now, there are other worlds than these.

 

**Fin**


End file.
